Moral Dilemmas
by Read The Subtext
Summary: Cassie discovers something that could compromise Rachel's position at NYADA and ultimately ruin her fledgling career, but will she seize the opportunity to kick Rachel when she's down, or prove to be an unlikely ally? Needless to say: JulyBerry, femslash, canon up until episode 4x15. This plot bunny refused to go away, so I'm now juggling two fics at the same time!
1. Chapter 1

Rachel Berry won't bend, let alone break. Every day, she saunters into the studio with her head held high, wearing some kind of hideous getup that makes you wonder if she's colour-blind, desperate for attention, or taking fashion pointers from someone who secretly hates her. Either way, she only has to step foot inside your classroom and you feel like you're having an allergic reaction to her. She's a half-inch shy of being an honest-to-God midget and probably weighs all of 100lbs, but there isn't enough space in your studio to accommodate her gargantuan ego. Your skin starts to crawl whenever she's in your immediate vicinity (not that it stops you from invading her personal space, because you like toying with your prey before you devour it whole). Even the sound of her breathing is enough to set your teeth on edge. You've done everything in your power to convince her that she's a worthless waste of space; just another run-of-the-mill wannabe poised to crash and burn; but your efforts to undermine her never seem to have a lasting impact, even when she's practically gaping at you in terror. You're starting to think Barbra Streisand herself could tell Rachel she was destined for failure, and Rachel still wouldn't believe her.

Still, you've never been good at admitting defeat, so you continue trying to punch holes in her self-esteem, or at the very least stop it from inflating to obnoxious proportions. Your insults get more personal, your criticisms get more vicious, and you start revelling in the smallest of victories – Rachel evading eye contact in the wake of a cutting remark, faltering in the middle of a routine, looking meek and perplexed and (if you're lucky) even a little bit hurt. Still, it doesn't matter how many times you intentionally hold her back, the annoying little troll just won't give up the fight. She keeps on striving to improve, even while her classmates regard her contemptuously, and you've got to hand it to her - she's made of tougher stuff than you gave her credit for.

You still have fun playing with her, though. It doesn't matter if they're asexual, celibate or the Virgin Mary, when you let loose and strut your stuff, there isn't a person in the room – gay or straight – who doesn't get a little hot under the collar, and Rachel's no exception. The awed look on her face during _'Americano'_ tells you everything you need to know, but it's the way her hands are shaking when she helps you to stretch that really gives the game away. You catch her ogling your ass on more than one occasion, or casting a surreptitious glance at your abs, and she seems to be developing quite the crush on you. You chalk it up to Stockholm Syndrome, but you're still perversely flattered, even though you should probably be repulsed.

It's amusing at first, watching her blush and squirm and chew her bottom lip while you lecture her about the art of being sexy, but then she goes out of her way to try and prove to you that she's 'not that innocent' and you realise you can't even offend her prudish sensibilities anymore, because in that moment, you're as drawn to her as she is to you. In a last-ditch attempt to regain the upper hand, you resort to screwing the guy who's competing for her affections (you tell yourself that you're only sparing her the embarrassment of fawning over him, because he's bound to abandon her at the first sign of a better offer, anyway). You thought that would shut her up once and for all, that she wouldn't be able to withstand the humiliation, but then she comes back stronger than ever, playing you at your own game during _'All That Jazz.'_ You watch her gyrate against the barre and shimmy around the room, and you have no idea when she mastered the art of seduction.

You try not to think about how she's pushing you every bit as hard as you're pushing her, because now you're not just coasting through the day, refusing to get invested in anyone or anything; now you feel compelled to be at the top of your game. You can't afford to down a few shots at lunch time anymore, or turn up nursing a hangover; not when you might have to prove another point to your pint-sized nemesis, whether it comes in the form of a biting retort or a spur-of-the-moment dance-off. At the moment, you're winning the war, but that doesn't stop you from lying awake at night, dreaming up new ways to torment the girl who's rapidly becoming the most infuriating student you've ever had the misfortune of teaching. Dance 101 has suddenly become about so much more than just paying your rent and putting a bunch of delusional kids through their paces, and it's the most alive you've felt in years.

Rachel doesn't know that you're keeping tabs on her outside of the classroom, too. You loiter outside of the round room when she's participating in performance workshops, and you can see why Carmen bent the rules for her; why her perpetually stern expression softens around the edges when she talks about Rachel in the faculty lounge (even if it pisses you off no end). You usually only get in tune with your emotions after downing a bottle of Malibu, but Rachel has the kind of voice that forces you to feel something, like you're Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman,_ going to see the Opera for the first time. You know that one day, she'll leave an entire audience slack-jawed with awe and sniffling into their handkerchiefs, and you hate her for it, because you were always just a good-time girl. You made people want to get up and dance, you made them want _you_, but you never had the ability to tug at their heart strings. Rachel's voice is so special, you don't even know why she feels compelled to try so hard in dance class, but you recognise that unrelenting determination to be the best at everything. You used to be afflicted with it, too... until you forced yourself to stop caring.

After she wins the Winter Showcase (which you refuse to attend, because there are only so many times you can watch her prove you wrong before you go bat-shit crazy with the sheer frustration of it all), she suddenly becomes everyone's favourite person, and you look on in amusement as she acquires an entourage of shallow, self-serving acolytes. They drop her off before lessons, and pick her up afterwards, singing her praises the whole time, and the sad thing is, she seems to think that they genuinely like her. Even though she's more insufferable than ever, there's a part of you that almost feels sorry for her, because you felt untouchable once, too. Sure enough, a few weeks later, Rachel's ascent to the top of NYADA's pecking order suffers a major setback when her roomie decides to teach her a lesson in humility. You quickly hear the hushed whispers about the events of Midnight Madness, and the next morning, Rachel turns up to your studio all alone, head hanging dejectedly.

"You shouldn't stay up past midnight, Schwimmer. You of all people need your beauty sleep," you taunt her, because it's practically second nature now.

She squares her shoulders and walks away from you, refusing to grace you with a response. She's good at taking the high road, but you're even better at dragging her back down to Earth. You leave her alone for as long as you can stand to, and then you sidle over to her.

"So I take it your little fan club's disbanded? You must have known it was only a matter of time before they moved on to bigger and better things, right?"

She purses her lips and avoids your gaze, so she doesn't see the sympathy lingering just below the surface.

"They're just busy this morning, that's all," she says quietly, but she isn't fooling anyone, least of all herself.

"Look, everyone wants to be your friend when you're riding the wave of success," you advise her softly, leaning close, "But most of them don't stick around for the long haul."

"And I assume you're speaking from experience?" she bites back, "Because you don't strike me as the type of person who _has_ a lot of friends, Miss July."

And really, why do you even bother? You feel that familiar hostility bubbling up inside of you, and of course, it has to find an outlet.

"Didn't the guy who won your little sing-off last night go to the same high school as you?" you ask her, and Rachel already looks wary, like she knows where this is heading. She barely dips her head in acknowledgement, but it's all the encouragement you need.

"Then I guess you're not as good as you like to think you are, Schwimmer, because from where I'm standing, it sounds like he's the real deal and you just tagged along for the ride. You should be grateful he wasn't competing against you in the Showcase," you conclude, just to rub salt into the wound.

"Kurt would be the first person to tell you that _I_ was considered to be the rising star of Glee Club. He had to content himself with living in my shadow."

"Well, maybe you peaked too early," you retort, and you relish the uncertainty that briefly flits across her features.

Eventually, though, you reach an impasse – after all, there are only so many insults you can come up with before they start sounding old, and you can see the looks the other students are giving you. They think this is some kind of embittered witch hunt, that you're actually jealous of this tiny little brat who came from the backwoods of nowhere. They'd probably even feel sorry for her, if they weren't secretly grateful that you're unleashing your wrath on her instead of them. You realise, then, that Little Miss David Schwimmer has somehow become the focal point of your attention, that you've made your lessons all about her, and that's probably exactly what she wants – to star in her very own melodrama, where she gets to play the innocent victim. Except there's nothing innocent about the way she rolls her eyes and smirks at you, or how she knows exactly what to say to drive you nuts. Rachel gives every bit as good as she gets, and somewhere along the line, while you were trying to claw your way through her composure, she wormed her way under your skin.

You seem to have developed a warped kind of affection for the student you've been treating like your own personal punching bag, because Rachel's ability to stay upbeat in the face of adversity - to believe in herself even when someone's repeatedly telling her she doesn't have what it takes - is something you never quite managed to master. It's enough to make you decide to act like an adult for a change, and you start interspersing your gibes with some constructive criticism. You even give her some positive reinforcement every once in a while - just enough to keep her wanting more, and you can see how much she's craving it when you deny her the attention you used to heap on her.

Then something changes. She turns up late to class, which is unheard of for her, and when you order her to sit out the first half of the lesson as penance, she almost looks relieved. She sits unobtrusively in the corner of the room, lost in her own little world, and it's almost like she's hoping you'll forget she's there. At first, you think she's just having a bad day, that she stayed up late studying and that's why she has dark circles under her eyes; why her complexion looks so sallow. When she re-joins the class, you can tell she isn't paying a blind bit of attention to what you're saying, and when you call her out on it, it's like she can't even hear you. There's no apology, no explanation, no comeback. Nothing.

You give her a day's grace, even though you hate it when your students lose focus, but when she turns up to class for a second time looking like the living dead, stumbling her way through another routine like she's in some kind of hypnotic trance, you can't tolerate it anymore. You snap your fingers in front of her face, abruptly drawing her out of her reverie.

"What's the matter, Schwimmer? Did your parents finally realise that they're wasting their money on a lost cause?"

You only say it to provoke a reaction, because you know she'll grit her teeth and dance her ass off just to spite you. Except she doesn't. Her posture becomes even more lax, and her lines are deplorable. It's the troubled look in her eyes that really worries you, though, and when she tries to evade your detection by moving to the back of the class instead of rushing to the front, you know something's seriously amiss.

You give her one last chance to redeem herself (which is frankly more than she deserves), but when she turns up to your next lesson in a similar state, you can't give her a free pass anymore. You wait until the class is over, and then you pull her aside. There's a reason why you haven't been allocated your own tutor group – pastoral care isn't really in your repertoire – but you want to know who's finally succeeded in taking the wind out of Rachel's sails. Who knows? Maybe they can give you pointers.

"OK, what the hell is wrong with you?" you demand unceremoniously, "Your face could curdle milk at the best of times, Schwimmer, but now it's downright offensive, and I'm sick of looking at your miserable mug. So come on, out with it. Are your parents getting a divorce? Did Brody dump you for a new and improved model? Did your roomie go running for the hills?"

Rachel ducks her head submissively, avoiding your gaze.

"I'm sorry, Miss July. I know I've been... distracted lately. I'll do my best to ensure it doesn't happen again."

You're disappointed by her mild-mannered response - you were expecting something more defiant - and you're not sure what to do with her now, or how to react to her deference.

"Yeah, well, you'd better pull your head out of your ass, Schwimmer, because if I don't see some signs of improvement, you can kiss goodbye to this class," you eventually tell her, in no uncertain terms.

She scuffs her ballet slipper against the wooden floor, and you almost feel bad for berating her. She clearly isn't going to open up to you (not that you can blame her - she'd have to be an idiot to confide in you after everything you've put her through), but you know there's a lot more that she isn't saying.

"Look, if you're worried about your boy-toy spending all those late nights with me, don't be," you assure her. "I'm not interested in your sloppy seconds, OK? It's purely professional."

She meets your eyes, then, and for a moment, you think she's going to say something (because she knows better than anyone that you don't know _how_ to be professional), but she just bites her lip instead, and when the silence starts to feel uncomfortable, you finally give up.

"OK, Schwimmer, you're dismissed," you eventually concede, "But consider this your one and only warning. I don't give a crap what's going on in your personal life – and that's assuming you even have one – just don't bring it into my classroom, OK?"

She nods her understanding and, before you can stop yourself, you reach out to lay a hand on her forearm.

"But if you do need to talk about anything..." You contemplate the ridiculousness of adding _'you know where to find me,'_ and settle for saying, "You should go and see the Freshman Counsellor."

She stares at your hand like it's a figment of her imagination, and then she offers you a tight-lipped smile. "I'll bear that in mind. Thank you for your concern, Miss July."

There's a sardonic edge to her tone, and you're grateful that at least there's some fire left beneath this disconcerting fragility.

* * *

"So, what's the deal with your girlfriend?" you ask Brody later on that evening, when he's helping you to devise your lesson plans for the following week. He looks nonplussed, but at least he's not suspicious of your motives. Yet.

"What do you mean?" he asks you, and you wonder why the sight of him in a sweat-soaked A-shirt does absolutely nothing for you anymore.

"She just seems a little... subdued... in class, that's all."

"Then maybe you should cut her some slack," he retorts good-naturedly. He shrugs, looking thoughtful. "She seems fine to me. I mean, one of her old friends from school is staying with us at the moment and she can be a bit of a bitch, but Rach seems to be taking it all in her stride. Why? Do you think there's something wrong with her?"

He looks anxious, now, and you mentally kick yourself for getting involved.

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not an expert on the inner workings of Schwimmer's pea-sized brain," you snap, but then you can't help but add, "Maybe you should check in with her, though. Make sure she's all right?"

Brody squints at you, like he's waiting for the punchline. "Yeah... OK," he says slowly, and it looks like he's trying not to laugh. "I didn't realise you cared."

"I don't," you say flatly, abruptly turning away from him.

You can tell that he isn't covering for her. He's genuinely oblivious, so either Rachel's been pulling the wool over his eyes, or you're the root cause of her misery and she makes a miraculous recovery once she leaves your studio. You wonder if, against all odds, you've finally said something that's cut a little too close to home. Or maybe Brody's just too busy pumping up his pecs and preening himself in the mirror to notice the difference. It's _not_ that you care, per se, it's just that Rachel was the only student who came close to keeping you on your toes, and now you're bored out of your mind again.

* * *

You don't eat lunch in the faculty lounge, even though Carmen frequently reprimands you for your anti-social tendencies. You can't stand the inane small talk, so you usually retire to your office, or pull up the piano stool in your studio and nibble at a fruit salad. Your cupboards were bare this morning, though, so you reluctantly head towards the student cafeteria, hoping they're serving something that isn't going to exceed your calorie count for the day. You cringe when you hear the raucous din emanating from the room, but when you push open the double-doors, it noticeably dies down. You know there's a difference between fear and respect, but you still revel in the fact that you can silence a room just by walking into it. Your eyes instinctively home in on Rachel, who's sitting a few feet away from you. She's with Brody, Kurt and some other guy you don't recognise, but they seem oblivious to the fact that she isn't really listening to their conversation. She has that same faraway look in her eyes, and her laughter comes a fraction too late to be genuine. You find yourself walking towards her, and try not to smirk when you see the way her eyes widen in response.

"All set for class tomorrow?" you ask her, and she nods curtly.

"Glad to hear it," you say, with a mischievous wink, and then you pluck a few fries off her plate, popping them into your mouth. "But you might want to consider going for the healthier option next time."

She glares at you, but there's a spark of amusement in her eyes, and you're glad that you've taken her mind off whatever was bothering her.

* * *

"You're gonna have to do better than that if you want to get back in my good graces, Schwimmer."

"I didn't think that was humanly possible," she retorts good-naturedly, "But please tell me what you have in mind, Miss July, because I think I'm going to pull my hamstring if I lift my leg any higher."

You can't help but snort in amusement, because you've missed this twisted camaraderie.

"I'm sure my TA would be happy to help you with your flexibility," you inform her drily, swallowing a completely inappropriate pang of jealousy.

Rachel doesn't even crack a smile – in fact, she looks a little green around the gills - and it makes you wonder if there's trouble in paradise.

"I take it you've... resolved... whatever issues you were having?" you ask her, and she nods resolutely. You see the way her posture stiffens, though, and wonder if it's still a sore spot.

You know there's no point in prying any further, so you turn your attention to the rest of the class, content in the knowledge that Rachel isn't a complete liability anymore.

"Miss July?"

Rachel catches your eye when you're next circling the room, and you walk over to her, making some slight adjustments to her stance. You pretend not to notice the way she stops breathing when your hands settle against her hips, just like you pretend not to notice the heat that settles low in your belly.

"What?" you demand impatiently.

"Would you mind if I stayed behind after class today?" she asks you hopefully, "I could use the extra practice."

"Well, you know what they say, Schwimmer," you note in amusement, "Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery."

Rachel looks like she's fighting the compulsion to snipe, _"Is that what they told you in your AA meetings?"_ but you're feeling charitable today, so you nod your assent.

"The janitor usually locks up around seven. Until then, it's all yours."

She smiles her gratitude, and you do your best to ignore her for the rest of the lesson, because you don't want to acknowledge how hard it's becoming to tear your eyes away from her.

When your students start filtering out of the room, you head back to your office to finish scribbling down an idea for a new routine, but you can't resist checking in on Rachel on your way out. You hover in the doorway undetected, watching her relentless quest for perfection as she practises the same movements over and over again. You see her legs trembling with the strain, and you realise that she's punishing herself to impress you. It makes your stomach twist with something that feels horribly like guilt.

"You should take a breather," you urge her, because it's clear she's pushing herself too hard to over-compensate for her earlier transgressions.

She startles at the sound of your voice, but then shakes her head determinedly.

"I'm fine."

"Schwimmer, sit your ass down, or I'll kick you out of here."

She looks at you like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, like you're going to mock her if she shows the faintest sign of weakness, so you reach for your gym bag, tossing her a fresh bottle of mineral water.

"I'm all out of sippy cups today."

She gives you a small smile, and you have to turn away before you give in to the compulsion to smile back. She sinks onto the piano stool, supping her water, and you busy yourself with packing up the rest of your things.

It's pure luck that you happen to be heading towards the door when she stands back up again. You see her sway precariously and then pitch forwards, and you don't even stop to think, you just lunge towards her, somehow managing to break her fall. You sink gingerly onto the hardwood floor, bearing the brunt of her body weight as you cradle her in your arms, and your heart starts pounding violently when you realise that she's out cold.

"Rachel!" You manoeuvre her off your lap and onto her back, elevating her legs, and your fingertips are trembling when you reach out to check her pulse. It's strong – thank God - and you suck in a hitching breath when you realise that this isn't a matter of life or death. It occurs to you that you've always wanted to slap her across the face, and now you finally have the perfect excuse, but you opt to squeeze her hand instead, urgently calling her name again. It's only a matter of seconds before brown eyes are blinking up at you in confusion.

"What happened?" she asks, and you help her to sit up, taking in her dazed expression. You tilt her chin upwards, checking to make sure her eyes are focusing properly, and then you manage to muster a shaky smile.

"Apparently, being alone in a room with me was enough to make you swoon," you tease, and Rachel's circulation must be improving, because she blushes furiously.

She glances down at your entwined hands, and you realise that you're still stroking her knuckles with your thumb. You immediately pull away from her, clearing your throat.

"Have you ever fainted before?" you ask her, trying not to sound as worried as you feel.

She shakes her head, but you stop her from trying to clamber to her feet, resting a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Just take it easy for a minute, OK? Tuck your knees under your chin and lean forward a little."

You can see that she's mortified, but for once, you have no intention of milking her discomfort. You move backwards, giving her some space, and she scrubs a hand over her face.

"Have you eaten anything since lunch time?" you ask her, wondering if her blood sugar levels are low.

"Yes," she says quietly, "I had a snack bar and some dried fruit about an hour ago."

You frown, regarding her critically.

"And what about now? Do you feel dizzy, or light-headed?"

You're aware that this is starting to sound like an interrogation, but you're still having palpitations and your skin's bathed in a cold sweat, and you're not going to let this go without an explanation.

"No," she says, but she's resolutely avoiding your gaze. You don't know if it's because she's embarrassed, or because she's lying.

You reach out, pressing your palm against her forehead, and laugh when she squirms away from your touch.

"Trust me, Schwimmer, I'm enjoying this about as much as you are, so how about you hold still for a second, OK?"

Her skin feels a little clammy, but she isn't running a temperature, and her colouring's good.

"OK, let's get you up."

You grip her elbow, hauling her into an upright position, and then hover by her side, just in case she decides to hit the deck like a sack of potatoes again. She seems steady on her feet, though, and she's looking at you like she can't quite believe you have the capacity to be this solicitous.

"Look, I'll drive you home tonight, but if this happens again, you need to get yourself checked out, OK?" You hesitate, re-considering your options. "In fact, maybe I should take you to the hospital now, just to be on the safe side."

"No!" she exclaims, a little too forcefully, but then she softens her tone. "I'm fine. Really. I must have just... overexerted myself, that's all."

"Schwimmer - "

"Cassie, please don't make a fuss," she pleads, and then she bites her lip, regarding you anxiously. You choose not to comment on the fact that she just called you by your given name, even though it speaks of a familiarity you're not entirely comfortable with.

"So I take it you don't want me to fetch you a damp washcloth, then?" you ask her wryly, and she finally cracks a smile, shaking her head.

"No, that won't be necessary, thank you."

There's a moment of strained silence, and then she regards you nervously.

"Did I..." she hesitates, laying a hand over her stomach, and you wonder if she's feeling sick, "Did I hit the floor hard?"

"No. Fortunately for you, I have good reflexes," you inform her with a wicked grin, and she looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole again.

"Well... thank you... for taking care of me, but I'm just... I'm going to head home now, OK?"

She moves to collect her gym bag, hastily pulling on a sweater and some leggings, but you intercept her on her way to the door.

"Schwimmer - "

"Kurt's waiting for me in the Starbucks across the street," she hastens to reassure you, before you have chance to voice your objections, "So I won't be on my own."

You let out a resigned sigh, debating whether to force the issue and insist on driving her home yourself. You're not thrilled about the prospect of being in a confined space with her, but you're not going to rest easy until you know she's safe, either.

"OK," you eventually concede, "But you'd better not keel over on the subway, Schwimmer, because it'll be my ass on the line."

Her lips curl upwards in amusement. "You know, for a moment there, I actually thought it was _me_ you were concerned about."

"Then maybe I should check you for head injuries, after all," you retort, but you can't help but smile at her, holding out your hand. "Give me your cell phone."

She regards you in confusion. "Why?"

You blow out an exasperated breath. "Just do it."

She fumbles around in her gym bag and obligingly hands it over. You try not to gag when you see her wallpaper (you still have no idea why she forgave Brody for sleeping with you), but you program in your number, handing it back to her.

"I want you to text me when you get home. And that's not optional, OK?"

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she nods her understanding.

"Well... thank you again for being my Knight in Shining Armour," she murmurs, and you snort incredulously at her romanticism. "But I would... I would really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else about this."

"What, and pass up on a golden opportunity to humiliate you?" you ask, clutching at your chest as if the prospect physically pains you.

She laughs, then, and you think maybe she's starting to appreciate your warped sense of humour.

"Please?" she asks, and you waver for a moment, before tilting your head in acquiescence. She passed out on her own time, not on yours, and you could do without the extra paperwork.

She looks surprised by your response, but her eyes are brimming with gratitude, and you wink at her conspiratorially on the way out.

"Take care of yourself, Schwim."


	2. Chapter 2

It's obviously true what they say. No good deed goes unpunished. You were expecting Rachel to tip-toe around you after you bore witness to her (literal) fall from grace, but she seems to think that just because you stopped her face from getting intimately acquainted with the floor, you're her new BFF. She's sneaking glances at you even more often than usual and, after a week of enduring her apprehensive smiles, you're starting to wish that you'd just let her take a nose-dive, and christened her Little Miss Owen Wilson instead.

You stay true to your word, and don't expressly mention the incident in class, but you get your kicks in other ways. She knows it's not a coincidence when you illustrate the importance of spotting your turns by performing a rousing rendition of 'Dizzy,' and her eyes narrow when you come out of a series of fast-paced spins and pretend to flake out, landing gracefully in Aaron Newton's arms.

"_I'm so dizzy my head is spinning, like a whirlpool it never ends, and it's you, girl, makin' it spin," _you sing, smirking at her suggestively, and she looks outraged, like she can't believe you would stoop this low. Her hands fly to her hips as she glares at you, but you can tell it's mostly for show.

"_The first time that I saw you, girl, I knew that I just had to make you mine. But it's so hard to talk to you with fellas hangin' round you all the time..."_

She's blushing now, and you don't take your eyes off her, even when the male students in your class drape themselves all over you in a literal embodiment of the lyrics. You used to do this to make her feel uncomfortable; to make her painfully aware of the fact that she was (and still _is)_ sorely lacking in sex appeal; that she'll never have your innate desirability. Even now, when you perform a scissor kick right in front of her, you catch a fleeting glimpse of the wide-eyed, sexually repressed schoolgirl who looked at you with something approaching consternation when you cornered her against a table and sang to her about lust at first sight. Then she moistens her lips and meets your gaze without flinching, levelling you with a self-assured smile that seems to say, 'go ahead, do your worst,' and you almost feel proud of her.

You're three quarters of the way through the song now, and your eyes take on a mischievous twinkle when you sing, _"I need to call the Doctor for some help."_

You drag out the last syllable as you feign disorientation again, allowing Mark to scoop you up in a honeymooner's lift, and when you glance back at Rachel, you see her expression transform from pink-cheeked embarrassment to grudging amusement.

You wanted to humiliate her, not entertain her, but when you see your other students exchanging puzzled glances, you realise that this seems less like an exercise in intimidation, and more like you're singling her out for special attention. You're starting to think this wasn't the most effective way of re-asserting your boundaries, and you don't want to give people the wrong impression, so you spend the rest of the lesson steadfastly ignoring Rachel's existence. You can't help but glance at her on the way out, though, and she rolls her eyes at you, shaking her head despairingly. You're expecting some kind of outburst about your lack of sensitivity, but then her eyes crinkle at the corners and she starts to laugh, and you can't stop your lips from twitching in response.

* * *

You're used to students parting like the Red Sea when you walk through NYADA's corridors, staring at their shoes until you're at a safe distance, so when Rachel actually _waves_ at you when you walk past her in the hallway, you conclude that enough is enough. She doesn't seem to realise that you were contractually _obliged_ to intervene when she collapsed right in front of you, and she's clearly blown your professional concern out of all proportion. She's in desperate need of a wake-up call, so you decide to catch her off-guard in your next class, and pounce on her as soon as she walks through the door.

"I hate to break it to you, but a spray tan isn't going to make you any easier on the eyes, Schwimmer. That would require a cosmetic surgeon," you observe, taking in her bronzed skin and heavy eye make-up with an amused smirk.

Rachel's expression goes from expectant to crestfallen in the blink of an eye, but when she starts walking away from you, you loop a conciliatory arm around her shoulders, trying your best to ignore the way your body reacts to her proximity.

"I know; I know, experimenting with stage make-up is the closest you're ever going to get to the big time, but you look like a child beauty queen at their first ballroom competition," you inform her, relishing the way her jaw tenses in response, "Face it, Schwimmer, your face is only ever going to be fit for radio."

She whirls around to confront you, and you wait for the indignant sputtering to start.

"I've known plenty of girls like you, Miss July," she tells you instead, in a voice that's eerily composed, "In fact, one of them is asleep on my couch right now. She used to spend all of her time denigrating my talent and criticising my looks, too, but now she's cage-dancing to pay her share of the rent while I'm at the most prestigious Arts School in the country."

You know exactly what she's trying to say. _One day, I'm going to be a Broadway sensation, and all you're ever going to be is a cautionary tale; a bitter, old has-been who's chalked up a lifetime's worth of regrets in the space of a decade._

It hurts, but you know better than to let her see how much.

"Well, bully for you," you snipe sarcastically, but then you lean closer, lowering your voice to a seductive rasp, "But just for the record, Schwimmer, there's only _one_ of me."

When you're in danger of losing your edge, you play to your strengths, and Rachel somehow manages to look both flustered and intrigued at the same time. Even still, she holds your gaze, and it's clear that she intends to stand her ground.

"That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that I've heard it all before. And I stopped letting it hurt me a long time ago."

She's lying – you can see it in the way her eyes briefly flicker away from you and the motion of her throat as it bobs up and down, like she's trying to swallow too many bad memories – but you have to admire her gumption, if nothing else.

"Well... thank you for that thrilling insight into your tragic past," you say, abruptly turning on your heel. When you stop feeling the lingering heat of her gaze, you glance back at her. She looks preoccupied, but she knows better than to let her guard down again. When your eyes lock, she immediately snaps back to attention, and you watch her weary expression turn into a neutral mask.

You've seen Rachel desperately trying to make friends here, chasing guys around the room and smiling at them in the hopes that they'll partner up with her (usually to no avail), subjecting innocent bystanders to her incessant chatter, latching on to Brody even though he didn't think twice about falling into bed with _you_ when he was supposed to have a thing for _her_. Now she's apparently helping out the girl who made her life a living hell in high school. You wonder where her unwavering optimism stems from; where she gets the strength to keep on trying; how she can still see the good in people who are habitually cruel to her.

You avoid her for the next forty-five minutes, but when everyone's packing up their things, you cast another fleeting look in her direction. You catch her staring straight back at you, but she quickly averts her eyes, snatching up her bag and making a beeline for the door.

* * *

You continue making an example of her (you hand her a casting call for the Broadway Revival of 'The Frogs' and tell her she's a shoo-in for Frog Number Five), but you can't resist flirting a little bit, too, because it's clear she's still fighting an attraction to you. You're careful not to make her the subject of your performances anymore, but you can see how much she hates it when you dance with the guys in your class, and so - naturally – you bump and grind against them at every given opportunity, watching her disgruntled reactions with delight. She either looks away in disgust, or glares at your partners ferociously, until one day, you catch her by the hand and pull her into hold.

"Come on, Schwimmer, we can't have you feeling left out," you tease her, and she lights up like a Christmas tree as you twirl her around the room. You wait until she relaxes into your arms, guiding her through the steps until she has them down pat, and then you step away from her when she's least expecting it, leaving her flailing. You can't deal with the pang of longing that comes from being this close to her, especially when she's looking at you like _that_, so you instinctively lash out.

"And that's how _not_ to do it," you inform the rest of the class, and the look Rachel gives you when they start sniggering – like you just ripped out her heart and stomped on it – cuts through you in a way you weren't expecting. The next time you use her for a demonstration, all of her eagerness is gone. She's stiff and self-conscious in your arms, and you know she's not just turning her cheek away from you because the dance requires it.

Even still, she continues watching your every move, and you wonder if she's started calling out your name during sex or something, because the next time you see Brody, he's in a foul mood. He's communicating in monosyllabic grunts and has a face like a slapped ass, and when he screws up a lift and nearly sends you catapulting to the floor, you lose what's left of your temper.

"OK, Weston, we're done here. If you can't make time for me in your busy schedule, there are plenty of other people who would jump at the chance."

He reaches for a towel, drying off his face. "Look, Cassie, you know how grateful I am for this opportunity, but I can't come running every time you call. I barely get any time alone with Rachel as it is, and now she's working late shifts - " He trails off, and you watch the look of horror dawn on his face when he realises what he's just said.

"Working late shifts _where_?" you interject sharply, and you hear him mutter _'shit'_ under his breath.

"Forget it, OK? I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you shouldn't," you say acerbically, "You know damn well freshmen aren't allowed to take on paid work during the academic year. Not unless they have the Faculty's approval."

"Yeah, well not all of us have rich parents, OK?" he retorts, ducking his head. "Plenty of students have jobs on the side. You'd be surprised what we do to make ends meet."

If Carmen knew her precious little snowflake was breaking the rules and burning the candle at both ends, she'd hit the roof, and Rachel would probably find herself on probation for the rest of the semester. Months ago, you would have jumped at the chance to stir up some trouble for her, but now all you can think is: _no wonder she looks so tired. _

"So, what are you saying?" you ask him warily, "That her parents can't afford to pay her tuition fees anymore?"

"No!" he exclaims, and you can see that he's frantically trying to back-pedal. "I think she's just... saving up for a new wardrobe or something, you know? She wants to fit in with the rest of the NYADA crowd. She said it would only be for a month or so."

You snort incredulously, because you find it hard to believe that Schwimmer would risk everything in the name of vanity.

"What kind of work is she doing?" you ask him, and he shrugs, avoiding your gaze.

"I don't know."

"Like hell you don't, Brody," you spit out, but then you make a conscious effort to soften your tone. "Look, I'm not going to tell Tibideaux, if that's what you're worried about," you assure him, but he looks sceptical.

"Come on, Cassie, do you honestly expect me to believe that? Rachel says you hate her with a passion."

"I hate all of my students with a passion," you retort, and he regards you in amusement.

"Are you including me in that sweeping assessment?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" you ask him, and then you burst out laughing when you see his deflated expression. "Jesus Christ, Brody, you didn't actually think this was going to become a _thing_, did you? I was horny and you were the closest available solution, that's all. I'm not going to risk my job by staging a repeat performance," you inform him, with your usual brand of brutal honesty, "You weren't that good."

"So Rachel was right. You _were_ just using me to get at her," he observes, and you try not to roll your eyes at his butt-hurt expression.

"Oh, get over yourself. I gave you the ride of your life, and you still got to walk away with the consolation prize," you remind him, trying not to let your irritation show, "And I'm sorry if Schwimmer's too tired to sleep with you, or too uptight to give you what you want, but I fail to see how that's _my_ problem. So how about you suck it up and learn the damn dance routine?"

"Look, forget it, OK?" Brody snaps, making a grab for his gym bag, "I can't deal with you when you're like this."

You watch in amusement as he storms towards the door like a toddler having a tantrum, but then he seems to change his mind, turning on his heel to face you again.

"But for the record, _Miss July_, you weren't that good, either. The whole drunk-and-dead-behind-the-eyes thing doesn't really work for me."

He has more balls that you gave him credit for, but he's going to have to do better than that if he wants to put a chink in your armour.

"Really?" you ask him curiously, "Because it took you all of three minutes to blow your load."

He turns beetroot red, and you watch him flounder as he tries to come up with an adequate response.

"Yeah, I bet you didn't tell your friends about _that_ part," you observe sarcastically.

"I didn't tell _anyone _anything!" he protests, "But I'm done defending you, Cassie. I mean, you know that everyone hates you, right? They're just too damn scared to say it to your face. And the next time Rachel comes home and complains about you being a heartless, soul-sucking bitch, I won't be making excuses for you."

For a moment, all you can do is blink at him. Then you ball your hands into fists, digging your fingernails into your palms.

"You're fired," you tell him coolly. "Get out."

"With pleasure," he retorts, and you freeze when he slams the door shut behind him. Then you pick up your water bottle, hurling it across the room, and wonder why you even care what Rachel thinks about you anyway.

* * *

There's a hesitant rap on your office door, but you're so hungover, it sounds more like a gunshot.

"What?" you bark, but you don't bother looking up from your computer screen.

You hear someone delicately clearing their throat, and you finally deign to acknowledge them, massaging your temples when you clamp eyes on your unwelcome visitor.

"I'm busy," you tell Rachel, promptly turning your attention back to your student evaluations. She's the last person you want to see, given that she's largely responsible for the empty bottle of rum on your kitchen counter and the worst night's sleep you've had in weeks.

"I know, and I'm sorry to bother you," she hastens to apologise, looking uncharacteristically meek, "But Brody told me about what happened last night, and I -"

"You're worried that I'm going to spill the beans about your extra-curricular activities?" you conclude, and she nods, ducking her head.

"It's just that I... I really need this job, Miss July," she informs you earnestly.

"Then maybe you should tell your boyfriend to keep his big mouth shut," you observe wryly.

"Miss July, _please_. You don't understand - " she starts to plead, but you don't have the patience to listen to her whining today.

"You're all paid up for the rest of the semester. I checked," you inform her pointedly, "And the bursar's office would have refunded your residence fees when you moved off campus. So what exactly do you need the money for, Schwimmer?"

You see the unfettered panic in her eyes, but she works hard to hide it. "I'm just having a few budgeting issues when it comes to rent and general amenities, that's all," she tells you, staring at the floor.

If you had the energy, you'd call her out on her bullshit, but you're too tired to try and wheedle the truth out of her.

"You're already taking the maximum number of credits," you remind her, "So don't come crying to me when you burn yourself out."

"I'm sure my schedule will be even more demanding when I'm performing eight shows a week," she informs you brightly, and you roll your eyes.

"See? The pressure's already making you delusional," you deadpan, and she gives you a strained smile.

"So... you won't say anything to Madam Tibideaux?" she ventures hopefully, and you shake your head, hoping that she'll finally leave you in peace. Instead, she regards you searchingly.

"Why?" she blurts out, and you raise an eyebrow at her, "I just... I thought you'd relish the opportunity to turn me in, " she admits, sheepishly.

"That would imply that I actually care about your welfare, Schwimmer," you tell her, in a bored tone, "Which I don't," you hasten to add.

An array of emotions play across her face – you can understand the relief, but the hurt takes you by surprise, given her alleged opinion of you.

"Well... thank you," she eventually concludes, "I promise I won't let it affect my performance."

"Judging from Brody's mood last night, it already has," you observe with a sly wink, regarding her in amusement.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," she replies primly, and you have to admire her, because even when she's begging you for something, she won't relinquish her pride.

"So many secrets, Schwimmer," you drawl, tutting your disapproval, and she folds her arms across her waist defensively, until you decide to take pity on her, and wave her towards the door.

"Now get out of here, before I change my mind."

* * *

You manage to overlook the bloodshot eyes and the sporadic yawns, but when you notice Rachel walking with a barely perceptible limp, you find yourself examining her even more closely than usual. She's making a concerted effort to pretend that everything's fine, but when the class is practising _batteries_ in formation, you see her trying to conceal a wince. She looks like a novice ballerina trying to break in a new pair of pointe shoes, and you'd be willing to bet that her toes are riddled with blisters. She doesn't change out of her ballet slippers at the end of the lesson, and when she's pulling her street clothes out of her gym bag, you catch a glimpse of the logo on the T-shirt that she hastily pushes to one side. _Busted._

Later that evening, you find yourself standing outside of a dive-bar that's doing a shitty job of masquerading as a restaurant, and your nose crinkles with distaste when you push open the door and find your feet sticking to the laminate floor. The place smells of spilt beer and rank sweat, with undertones of cigarette smoke, and the music blasting from the jukebox would be better suited to a honky-tonk bar full of hill-billies. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if there was a Bucking Bronco stashed away somewhere.

It occurs to you that what you're about to do is probably tantamount to stalking, but you chalk it up to professional concern, and reluctantly take a seat at one of the dilapidated tables. You spot Rachel almost immediately, taking an order from some overweight guy whose grubby jeans aren't doing anything to conceal his ass crack. He already looks like he's taking full advantage of Happy Hour, and he seems to have developed an unhealthy fascination with Rachel's legs – not that you can really blame him, given that she's wearing a black mini-skirt with no pantyhose. You'll never understand how someone so short can have legs like a lingerie model, but Rachel's clearly a firm believer in making the most of her assets.

"I haven't seen you around here before, doll face," he observes, and you see the look of disgust that registers on Rachel's features when she becomes the focus of his smarmy charm offensive. She does her best to disguise it, though, and somehow manages to muster an affected smile.

"That's because I'm new," she informs him cheerfully, and he licks his lips like some kind of paedophile grooming his prey.

"Well, I look forward to getting to know you better..." His lecherous eyes seek out her name tag, and then linger on her breasts, "_Rachel._"

Rachel steps back a little, crossing her arms over her chest, and you wonder if she's dreaming up ways to 'accidentally' dump steaming hot coffee in the bastard's lap. Or maybe that's just you.

"That's a double cheeseburger and fries, coming right up," she chirps, and you cringe when the greaseball watches her walk away, shamelessly ogling her ass. No wonder the other waitresses look like they've lost the will to live.

Rachel's limp is more pronounced now that she's not trying to hide it from you, and when you glance around at the other women, you realise that four-inch heels seem to be one of the dress requirements. You're not sure what bothers you more – the fact that Rachel must be in agony after enduring a gruelling dance class and then spending another eight hours on her feet, or the fact that you actually care. Either way, you know she wouldn't be putting herself through this purely for the sake of buying new clothes and, not for the first time, you find yourself wondering what the hell is going on with her.

When Rachel emerges from the kitchen again, you hide behind your menu, until you hear soft footfalls working their way towards you.

"What can I get you?" Rachel's voice is polite, but you can hear the underlying exhaustion.

"I guess a Long Island Iced Tea is out of the question?" you ask her drily.

She sucks in a strangled gasp, and you catch her notebook before it hits the floor, handing it back to her before she's even registered that it's slipped out of her hands. Your fingers brush for the barest hint of a second, but she pulls back as though she's made contact with poison ivy.

"You can't afford to be clumsy in this line of work, Schwimmer," you remind her, and she finally stops gaping at you for long enough to reclaim the power of speech.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses angrily, casting an anxious glance towards the kitchen, and you slam shut your menu, regarding her intently.

"Oh, I come here all the time," you tell her, barely managing to keep a straight face, "It's one of my favourite haunts. I mean, the music's great, the beer's cheap, and there are _so_ many eligible guys to hit on. What more could a woman want?" You finger the menu contemptuously. "Oh, except meat, meat and more meat."

She stares at you for a moment, and then her lips quirk at the corners.

"Did you just come here to mock me, or are you actually going to order something? Because if you're not, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she informs you, and you regard her in amusement.

"There's no way in hell I'm ordering anything from that cockroach-infested kitchen," you tell her, shuddering at the thought, "But I suppose I could risk sampling the coffee. I mean, that's presuming they even have any."

"It's instant," she whispers, leaning a little closer to you, "And they use full-fat milk."

You affect a horrified gasp, mostly for her amusement. "You're killing me here, Schwimmer."

She starts to laugh, and it's enough to elicit a death-glare from one of the older waitresses. Rachel promptly sobers up, shooting her an apologetic glance, and you raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

"Wow. They're a happy-go-lucky bunch here, aren't they?"

"This is the only place that would hire me at such short notice," she confesses, and in that moment, you can see how miserable she is, "I've never worked before, and everyone else wanted someone with previous experience."

"Come on, Schwimmer, if you wanted to wait tables, you could have at least gone for the big guns," you admonish her, "Hooters, or Coyote Ugly... but then again, I guess that would require you actually _having_ a rack of some description, and we both know your dancing ability isn't up to scratch."

"Do you want me to spit in your coffee?" she retorts, and now it's your turn to laugh.

"Don't even think about it," you warn her, and she rolls her eyes at you, disappearing into the kitchen.

A few moments later, you hear the manager chewing her out - _"I don't pay you to gossip with your friends, Berry!"_ – and the thought of anyone mistaking the two of you for casual acquaintances is enough to make you snort with laughter. Rachel tries to fight her corner - _"But I didn't ask her to come here!"_ - and it just seems to incense him even more. Your smile rapidly fades when he carries on screaming abuse at her, though, and the language he's using is colourful, even by your standards.

You haven't felt this all-consuming anger for a long time, but you recognise it as the same blind rage that incited you to pick up that baseball bat and terrorise an unsuspecting audience of theatre-goers. You're suddenly overcome with the urge to march through the swinging doors and knock seven shades of shit out of this guy, who clearly gets his kicks from bullying fresh-faced kids. Then you remember that you've been every bit as cruel to Rachel in the past, and it stops you dead in your tracks.

When Rachel finally emerges from the kitchen, the dickwad she was previously serving lets out a low whistle.

"Oooh, someone's been a bad girl," he teases, and Rachel shoots him a murderous glare, which only makes him laugh harder.

She sets a cup of coffee down in front of you, and her hands are shaking so violently, it sloshes over the rim.

"Schwimmer," you say softly, but she won't even look at you. "Rachel," you try again, more firmly this time, "Look, I know I haven't always been your biggest fan, but we both know you're so much better than this."

She looks at you, then, and it's the first time you've ever seen her close to tears. She blinks rapidly, frantically trying to cling to her composure, and your stomach twists into a painful knot as you watch her fight to get her words out without crumbling completely.

"Can you please just leave?" she asks you, and her voice catches on the last syllable.

"Not until you tell me why you're putting up with this crap," you counter, leaning back in your chair and regarding her expectantly.

Her chin starts to tremble, and she makes a show of straightening the condiments on your table.

"Miss July, if you stay, I'm probably going to cry, and I really don't want to give that jerk the satisfaction," she tells you desperately, "So _please_..."

"OK, OK, I'm going," you finally concede, pushing back your chair, because that's not a spectacle you want to bear witness to, "But for what it's worth... I'm sorry, OK? I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Then _why_..." she trails off, shaking her head, and you're glad she decides not to question your motives, because you're not entirely sure if you could explain them.

"Look, it doesn't matter OK? Just go," she says, abruptly turning her attention to a new customer.

You watch her paint on another sunny smile (at least she can hone her acting skills here, if nothing else), and you pull out your wallet, leaving a $20 note on the table. You head towards the door, but you can't help but glance back at her as she moves to clear away your cup and saucer. She picks up the money, regarding you quizzically, and you offer her a small smile. You're a little taken aback when she marches over to you, digging around in her apron to hand you some change.

"I don't need your charity," she tells you firmly, and you can't help but laugh, because you thought _you_ were stubborn.

"It's not charity, Schwimmer. I've always been a generous tipper," you tell her with a salacious smile, and then you crook your finger inside her apron pocket, drawing her closer so you can deposit the change back into the pouch. You don't anticipate just quite how close it's going to bring your hand to her crotch, though, and you hear her suck in a staggered breath as she registers the intimacy of the gesture. Still, apparently it's enough to quell her protests, and she gazes up at you in confusion, like she wishes she could figure out what you're thinking.

"You'd better go, before Attila the Hun goes on another rampage," you remind her, and her expression softens into a look of heartfelt gratitude.

"See you on Thursday," she says, and you nod, gently squeezing her shoulder.

* * *

All of your sympathy flies out of the window when she turns up to your next class dead on her feet, though, and you grit your teeth to keep from yelling at her when you watch her hobble her way through your latest routine. You at least have the decency to wait until after class, but then you seize her by the elbow, dragging her back inside the studio before she has chance to leave for the day.

"OK, Schwimmer, let me make this easy for you," you tell her intently, "You're going to quit that damn job – _tonight_ – or I'm going to march straight into Tibideaux's office and tell her that you're dancing like a cripple because you're spending your free time waiting tables in a seedy bar that no self-respecting NYADA student should be seen dead in."

"It's just for a few more weeks," she tells you weakly, but you're done making allowances for her.

"Let me see your feet," you command, and her eyes widen in alarm. "_Now,_ Schwimmer."

She reluctantly edges off her ballet slippers, and you suck in a sharp breath when you see the raw, bloodied skin underneath. There are a couple of band-aids hanging limply between her toes, but they're rendered useless by all the exercise she's been doing.

"OK, that's it," you tell her, and your tone is uncompromising, "You're done. I don't give a damn what you're saving up for, Schwimmer - even if it's a nose job – I'm not letting you do this to yourself anymore. "

"Cassie, I can't - " she whispers, but then she trails off, and you watch the colour drain from her face. She clamps a hand over her mouth, and you finally catch a clue when she sprints out of the studio, leaving her shoes – and everything else – behind.

"_Shit,"_ you mutter, burying your head in your hands, and for a moment you're paralysed by the cold, hard truth. Then you follow her to the rest-room down the hall and listen to her puking her guts up, and by the time she's finished heaving violently, you're feeling a little nauseous yourself. Nauseous, and angry. You should have recognised the signs; put two-and-two together, but you've spent so long trying _not_ to think about Rachel and Brody being together, it was easier to convince yourself that she was still the inexperienced, sexless little ingénue you encountered back in September.

It's 5.30pm, and classes are finished for the day, but you still check to make sure all the other stalls are empty before you lean against the sink, waiting for Rachel to emerge from her hiding place.

The chain flushes, and the door swings open. She turns an even sicklier shade of grey when she sees you standing there, and for a moment, she freezes, but then her expression becomes an inscrutable mask and she walks calmly over to the sink to wash her hands.

"I guess I caught that stomach bug that's been going around," she says, in a voice that sounds a little too thin, but you just stare at her reflection in the mirror until she's forced to look away from you.

"How could you be so stupid?" you demand, because you're not going to pussy-foot around her idiocy, "Or didn't they have Sex Ed. back in that podunk little town of yours?"

"Look, I'm handling it, OK?" she tells you, but her voice is shaking now, and you can see the fear in her eyes.

"Does Brody know?" you ask her, and her back goes rigid.

"No," she says quietly. "I'm not sure if he's – if he's - "

"Jesus Christ, Schwimmer. How many candidates are there?" you ask her, with a snort of incredulity. "I mean, I'm still finding it hard to believe that there's _one_ guy out there who finds you attractive enough to sleep with, let alone two - "

"This is a _student_ bathroom, Miss July, so if you want to use the facilities, I suggest you go elsewhere," she cuts in, and you regard her with amusement.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

You start to pace around the restroom, still trying to wrap your head around all of this. You're aware that the situation calls for a certain amount of tact, but you don't see the point in patting her on the head and asking her if she's considered her options, because there _is_ no option. Not if she wants to stay here.

"I thought you, of all people, would've had enough sense to put your interests ahead of some horny guy's," you tell her, even if it makes you sound like a disappointed parent, "Because if you were serious about your career - if you wanted this as much as you say you do - then you would've used a damn condom."

"Look, I made a mistake, OK? And believe me, I'm suffering for it," Rachel informs you in a tone that's starting to sound half-hysterical, "But you don't get to call _me_ stupid, because you're the one who had the role of a lifetime and threw it all away, Miss July. You're the one who went crazy just because some poor guy forgot to put his cell phone on silent before your show. You could have been _great_, but now you're just a nobody."

You know people lash out when they're backed into a corner, but you still can't believe her nerve. She called you a joke once, but telling you that you've amounted to nothing somehow hurts even more.

"Well, now you're going to know exactly what that feels like, because when Carmen finds out about this, she'll have you shipped back to Ohio before you can say 'Planned Parenthood.'"

"And you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Rachel spits out, "Because you've had it in for me right from the start." She regards you confrontationally. "How do you think Madam Tibideaux would react if she found out you were having sex with your students? Or that you're incapable of being sober for more than forty-eight hours at a time?"

"Do you really want to go there?" you ask her, advancing towards her menacingly, but you stop in your tracks when she sinks to the floor in a defeated heap.

"No," she whispers brokenly, "I just want all of this to be over."

Her face crumples, and you realise that you've finally accomplished the impossible. You've made Rachel Berry cry. You watch her eyes flood with tears, but then she tucks her knees under her chin, burying her face in her arms so you can't see her face. You can still hear her hitching sobs, though, and they make your heart wrench with empathy.

"Crying never helped anyone, Schwimmer. Believe me, I know," you tell her, and you crouch down beside her, gently rubbing her back. You finally stop to think about how hard this must have been; to keep up the act for so long; to lie to everyone around her. You think about how terrified and alone she must have felt, and then you remember that she's only eighteen, even if she often seems a hell of a lot more mature than _you_.

"Rachel - " you murmur, stroking her hair, but she won't let you comfort her.

"Just leave me alone," she whimpers, shrinking away from your touch. "Please."

And because you've already done enough damage – because you don't know how to fix it - you do.


End file.
